


The Light Waits for all Lovelorn Strangers

by Masian (salable_mystic)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salable_mystic/pseuds/Masian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never too late for the light to find you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light Waits for all Lovelorn Strangers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vampirebitch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Vampirebitch).



> This was written for Vampirebitch as part of the viggorli_xmas Secret Santa over on Livejournal.
> 
> This is a work of fiction, and no connection to the extra-textual (IE real) people of these names is intended. All words and images came from my mind and are not supposed to indicate people in the real world.

Orlando closed the door behind himself with a sigh, dropping the keys in the key dish on the small table in the hallway and toeing off his shoes, listening to the satisfying thump-thump they made on the hardwood floor. He dropped his bag next to them and walked down the hall on stockinged feet. He paused, briefly, caught between going into the kitchen and the living room, and then chose the kitchen with another sigh. He was tired and felt like he had been tired, running on empty for weeks now, but he'd also not been _home_ for weeks, and his housekeeper was bound to have left him a note with everything he needed to know on the kitchen table - and hopefully some fresh orange juice in the refrigerator. He was thirsty, and he needed to know if anything of import had happened, so the kitchen it was. He could go plop down on the couch in a little while, after all. The couch wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he.

Christmas was only a week from now and filming had broken up early for the holidays, so that everyone could go home and get busy buying presents. – Unless one made one's assistants do that, of course – some of his co-stars did it, which kind of took the personal aspects out of Christmas entirely, Orlando felt, and so had never done so. Not that he had many people to buy presents for. His family, and some childhood and career friends … but he'd gotten out of touch with people over the last months and years, what with work and travelling here and there for filming, and as the contacts had lapsed, so had the feelings of friendship.

Acquaintances he had by the hundreds, but friends … not so many. And the longer he was in this business, the more he felt as if he'd rather stay home and eat greasy pizza in front of the telly than go to yet another superficial Hollywood party. He'd loved them, once. Loved the high life and the glamour and the sheer glittering excitement of it all. He had loved it too much, in retrospect. Been too enchanted and bedazzled to see clearly, to listen to what his heart and conscience were telling him was truly important. Been too afraid to run with what he could not believe would last. Had not been brave enough to speak his heart and mind and damn the consequences.

And, well, it _hadn't_ lasted, so he'd been right there. But, he admitted with another sigh, caught staring into his mostly empty refrigerator, lost in thoughts … it had not lasted because of him. Because he'd been inconsistent, reluctant to commit to anything that would change his life irrevocably. Change it for the better, he was now certain. But he hadn't been, at the time. He'd been Neil Armstrong, if Neil Armstrong had been too scared to take that final step. No leaping for mankind, not with Orlando in the spacesuit up there. And this simile war really getting away from him. Best to stop it before he floated off into space altogether.

Orlando shook his head wryly and took the container of juice out of the fridge, twisted the cap off and took a gulp right from the box. Let's not get caught up in strange comparisons or the unalterable past, he told himself firmly, and turned towards the kitchen desk. The stack of mail waiting for him, all neatly sorted into different piles, was … intimidating. No, not merely intimidating. Make that terrifying.

At least his housekeeper's note told him, after a brief perusal, that everything was in order. No unexpected disasters, everything as it should be. So that was something.

Orlando gulped orange juice and turned his pensive gaze back towards the different stacks of mail.

Invoices, opened and hopefully dealt with, lay on the right. He didn't particularly like letting someone else open his bills for him, but given his long absences it was another unavoidable fact of his life that he would never have foreseen.

A stack of Christmas mail, unopened, lay next to it. He put the juice box down and started flipping through it, curious. Most of it looked to be – unsurprisingly – from agencies and the management of people he'd worked with, knew, had met once, or who simply thought they could profit from sending him a Christmas card. Undoubtedly his agent had dealt with a great many more of these, but some of them always got through into his private mail. And here and there in the stack he spied the return addresses of friends or close acquaintances, and he quickly sorted these out to one side, where they started forming a smaller stack of their own. He'd take them to the couch with him and take his time opening them. A pleasant way of spending half an hour.

Towards the bottom of the stack he found a firm brown envelope, far too large and heavy to contain a simple Christmas card, and the handwriting on the envelope made his breath catch in his throat.

Orlando had not seen that handwriting for years, except in art and photo books he furtively ordered in the independent bookstore next to his fitness club. Or, well, _tried_ to order and buy furtively, at any rate.

Last time he'd run into Liv when he'd gone in to pick his delivery up, since she apparently liked that slightly off-the-wall, hole-in-the-wall store, too. That had been … embarrassing all around. Liv was a good friend, but she was … _nosy_. She'd been nosy when they'd filmed together in New Zealand, and she had, completely unsurprisingly, not changed at all. Gotten worse, if anything. She was also still in touch with Viggo and spoke to him regularly, from what he heard, and so he'd been especially wary.

Viggo and he had agreed to go their own ways without looking for each other, after that last big argument, and he generally fared better when he _didn't_ know what Viggo was up to, precisely. He'd agreed to let go, and whenever he knew that Viggo might be in the same city – hell, in the same country – as he was in, he was always tempted to do something stupid. Like lay in wait for the guy, so he could take it all back. So he could get Viggo back. But Viggo had asked for distance, for a clean break rather than for ongoing pain, and if that was all that Orlando could give him, that was what he would do. Now, of course, he knew that he would want to give Viggo so much more, but he'd not know that back then, and so he'd promised to walk away from what he had, in that last heated argument, labelled as a fling – when it had obviously been so much more. To them both, as he had since realised the hard way.

That final argument was an argument Orlando still wished he could change, make turn out differently, undo. He'd accused Viggo of so many things, all untrue, and all because he had been scared. No one could _truly_ and honestly be so completely understanding, so patient. So willing to put up with Orlando's insecurities, with his requests for more time. Another movie, not quite yet, wait until we know how Proposition 8 will turn out. All his endless excuses. Sensible reasons, maybe, but also excuses. Except Viggo _had_ been that patient, _had_ been willing to give him the time he asked for. Time to experience the Hollywood life, time to live a lie, to be someone he thought he wanted to be seen as, but who he wasn't. Viggo had been unwilling to tie Orlando down, to force him into a decision Orlando wasn't ready for yet … and had instead given Orlando a lot of leeway, a lot of rope. Rope to hang himself on, to hang the two of them on, as it turned out.

Or that's what Orlando thought in retrospect. At the time, he'd not seen as clearly as he did now. If he _had_ , he would have used that rope to tie himself to Viggo with it firmly instead. To grasp it with both hands and never let go.

So, meeting Liv with that book in hand, half fearing and half yearning for the pain and regret that looking at it would bring him, had been awkward. He'd tried to hide the book beneath a stack of magazines he'd picked up from the counter at random, but he was sure she'd seen it. She'd been kind and not called him on it, though, and he had been extremely grateful. Grateful enough to let himself be talked into a cup of coffee in the bookstore café, where they'd spent an increasingly comfortable hour chatting about common acquaintances and she'd ruthlessly forced him to tell her the truth about his life. The thing about Liv was that she was a friend and she always looked so sweet and innocent that she somehow always made you tell her things you'd never planned to share with anyone, yet alone - or not even - her.

She'd been kind, though, and full of good advice he'd since ignored – work less, spend more time with friends, don't let them get to you, stop being so lovelorn and lonely … . It was so much easier to work too much instead, to always run at full speed and never slow down, so that he had less time to think about the successful but hollow shell his life had become.

He'd managed to wriggle free, eventually, with a firm hug and a promise to be in touch and come visit her and her son before too long.

Orlando'd paid for the book – and the magazines, a bit crumpled from his firm grip on them – and driven home, where he spent the rest of the day drinking too much wine and slowly leaving through the book from cover to cover, front to back and back to front and then again, tears running down his face. That had not been a good evening. Certainly not one devoted to the spirit of moving on. More one of moping and regret.

That had been months ago, though. He'd had work to return to, and the book had gone on the shelf in the bedroom with all its predecessors, and if he sometimes took one out and gave it a sad caress, no one would ever know, and there was no harm done.

And now this envelope was here, held in his suddenly numb hands, the handwriting wonderfully and painfully familiar.

Orlando turned away from the counter and plopped down into one of his elegant and rarely used kitchen chairs. He sat there for a moment, indecisive, staring as his neatly written address.

What was this?

Why now?

Well, he could answer that last question easily enough. Liv must have told on him. But … to what avail? Whatever she had said must have convinced Viggo to send this. But what was _this_?

And what could she possibly have said? That he'd screwed his life up? That the thinks you think you want when you are young and stupid are not the things that will make you happy, and you never know how much you will miss someone until they are no longer in your life? That a thing could be too much of a good thing for you to trust in its longevity?

If this was a "So sorry your life sucks, hope it gets better soon" Christmas card, then he'd … he had no idea what he would do then. He'd like to imagine it was something fierce and proud, but realistically it would probably only entail drinking a lot and sitting dejectedly on his couch for days.

Well, the sooner he opened the envelope, the sooner the drinking could begin. Right now would be a good time for a glass of wine, in fact. Best to get it over with.

He took a deep breath and turned the envelope over, absentmindedly running his hand over the handwritten return address as he did so. Perceval, but that came as no surprise. Only a fool put his private address and name on anything, in this business.

The envelope opened easily, and a hesitant look inside revealed that it contained a small stack of A5 sized photographs.

With hands that only shook a little, Orlando turned the envelope over and shook the photos out onto the table in front of him. Some fell face up, some face down. They hand numbers and handwritten words on the back, he saw, and turned them so that he could look at the images first.

There were nine of them, all of them artistic, abstract, in a style he was familiar with both from better times and from the well-studied books that sat on a shelf in his bedroom.

He spread them out in front of him, just gazing at the images, trying to decipher what message they might carry. Then he turned them over and sorted them into the order indicated by the numbers on their backs. The sentence fragments, when put in order, read:

 

_An Elf told me …_

 

  


_… that you are, and have been, love- &forlorn._

 

  


_I didn't know._

 

  


_It seems we are both broken,_

 

_out of focus,_

 

  
  


_trapped behind bars of our own making._

 

  


_If you've seen our light…_

 

  
  


_… your chair waits._

 

  


_Come on home?_

 

Orlando knew that chair, that door.

He turned the photos over again, afraid he had sorted them wrong. This could not be right. Second chances did not just come to you like that. It could not be true.

But it _was,_ the order was right, and there was no mistaking the message. He laughed; shaken, relieved, crying, feeling everything, everything, all at once. He felt like he could hug the world, and if Liv, wonderful, nosy, tattle-tale Liv had been there, he would have kissed her. If Viggo were here … he'd have done more than that. But it'd be a good place to start.

He stood up in a rush, the chair clattering to the floor behind him, overbalanced by his haste. His phone was in the hallway, in his bag, and while he had not dialled that number in years, Viggo was still saved in there, would forever have been saved in there, just in case … just in case his life took an unexpected turn for the better, for the unexpected, for the marvellous. Like it _had_. Might have? Possibly?

Let's not get ahead of yourself, Orlando told himself firmly.

He called up Viggo's entry and pressed dial with trembling fingers, clutching the phone to his ear and hardly daring to breathe as he listened to the dial tone. Please. Please. Please please _please_. Please still have the same number. Please let this not be a joke. Please let us get this sorted out. Please forgive me. Please let me come home for real.

It rang, and rang again. Then again. Another one. Five. Six. Finally someone picked up, and an out of breath and oh-so-familiar voice asked. "Orlando?"

"Yes. Yes! I wanted to say that I … that I … I am sorry. So sorry. If I could go back, I … I would change everything. I hate this, Vig. You were right, and I was wrong, and I am sorry. I was a fool, I didn't know … didn't know … didn't know so many things. I know them now. I think. Maybe. Possibly. More of them anyway. And I want to find out the ones that I don't. I don't want to be broken any more." He took a deep breath. He was babbling, crying, and after years of silence, that might not be the best thing. He used his free hand to wipe the tears from his face. Took another deep breath, and tried to speak in a calm voice. "I got your message, Vig. And my answer is yes. Please, _please_ , yes."

Orlando fell silent, holding his breath. He could hear the faint crackling of the mobile phone connection, and for endless seconds, there was nothing else. Then a deep breath being taken, and an achingly familiar, huffed, amused sigh.

"Whoa. You don't believe in doing things by halves any more, do you. And okay, Orlando, okay. Listen, I'm sorry too." Another silence, and then another sigh, frustrated this time."I can't do this over the phone. I mean, some of it, possibly, but not all. It's been years, and … there's no connection this way. How about you come on up to the house sometime and we'll … talk? See if there is anything there besides regret, anything we can build on?"

"Yes." Orlando sighed, tension draining from him, leaving him feeling years younger. "Yes, I'd like that. I really would. Thank you for offering. I know that you opening up like that – I mean, your house and all – it's … it's … thank you."

Silence fell, and stretched, and Orlando felt the tension slowly creep back on him. "But, is, you know, sometime … sometime soon?" He hesitantly asked, and then felt like that might have been pushing it, and added quickly: "Or, I mean, like, whatever works for your schedule. I understand if you're busy. And I don't want to be an imposition. And if you don't want me staying, I can be in and out in a day, it's … just let me know, okay?"

Vig huffed a laugh. "Well, sometime soon would be my preference, too. I'm not much for suspense, myself, but you've got to be busy. Filming I expect. So maybe in your first break next year or…"

Orlando interrupted him. "No! I mean, my break next year would work, if that's what you want, but I'm not. Busy that is. Right now. And even if I were, I'd just cancel it all. This is … this is very important to me, Vig. You've _got_ to know how important this is to me. A lot more important than work, or, or anything. I don't …" he paused, hesitating, caught by too many emotions all at once. Orlando bit his lip, then added. "I don't want to waste any more time."

"Okay then. Good. That's … that’s good, Orli. Me neither. Let's see …" a pause, and then Viggo's voice came back, resolute. "Well, I'm busy for Christmas, but there're a few days to go until then yet, and I've got nothing on until the 23rd. Can you come up before?"

Orlando blinked, hesitated, did some quick mental calculations and checked his watch.

They'd stopped filming at noon, he'd come home early, and it was barely gone two. "Yeah. Absolutely. And, listen, I know it might totally be more rushed than you expect, and you can tell me to bugger off and be sensible and all, but if the 4.20pm flight still exists, I could be there by half eight, like I used to be back when we … you know." He took a deep breath and decided that he might as well go for broke. "Had this thing that was totally awesome and that I really _really_ hope we can get back. Only better." He gestured with his free hand, forgetting that Viggo would not be able to see it.

"I know." Viggo's voice sounded lighter, more certain, "The flight's still there, elf boy, and tonight's fine. No sense in both of us spending a sleepless night, worrying and wondering and coming up with reasons not to take another chance on each other."

No one had called Orlando elf boy in years. He grinned, a bit wobbly, suddenly feeling lots better. "You're right. Though I  … I've had years in which to try them all on myself, trying to convince myself that I did the right thing. They aren't true, Vig. Not one of them. They won't become any more true even if we were to wait another decade. But … I'd rather not. Ten hours, maybe. But not ten years, not unless you ask me to."

Vig snorted. "I'm not getting any younger, Orlando. Get your ass up here, if you want this sorted out."

"Right. Okay. I'll do that then. And Vig … thank you. Thank you. Thank you for listening to elf gossip, and for giving me a second chance."

Orlando heard another sigh on the line, and Viggo sounded dead serious when he replied: "Don't … just don't expect too much Orlando, okay? I'm not the man I used to be, and neither are you. Let's just … let's see what happens."

"Yeah. That's, I mean, I agree. But it's still more than I thought we'd ever do again, so… ."

"I know. Me neither."

"So …" Orlando said, unsure.

Viggo chuckled, the mood lightening again. "So: Go pack an overnight bag, Orlando! I'll pick you up in the usual spot outside the gate. And try not to worry too much, alright?"

"Okay. You neither. We'll sort it out, you'll see."

 "Well, I'll give you this: I reckon we might, at that."

 "Right." Orlando hesitated, and then decided he might as well risk it. Viggo knew him, after all, and his slightly strange sense of humour had never bothered him before, only amused him. "Hanging up now, as I need both hands to pack, else I won't have any clothes!"

Yep, definitely a laugh. Orlando cheered silently, feeling much better and more optimistic already. Some of the chemistry was definitely still there.

"Behave, or you'll have to sleep in the stables!"

This time, Orlando had to chuckle. "Not again, please! Remember how we got hay everywhere?"

"As if I could forget." Viggo's amused voice grew hesitant, serious. "It's … Orlando, I've _tried_ to forget, I've got to be honest with you there, but …"

"Yeah," Orlando sighed again. "I did too. And I couldn't either." He took a deep breath. "But let's finish this conversation face to face. It's going to be hard enough with facial clues, let alone without. Hanging up now, 'kay? I'll see you tonight."

"You're right. And …" A pause. "Listen, Orlando, I want you to know: I'm looking forward to it, regardless of what we turn out to be."

Orlando smiled softly. "Yeah, Vig, me too. It'll be good to see you again, come what may. Though hopefully only good things."

Viggo chucked, "Indeed! Go pack!"

Orlando heard the sound of a phone being hung up, and hurried to the bedroom, dialling the number of the driving service he used with one hand. There was no more time to waste. Finally there was no more time to waste.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  
Liv woke up late on New Years' Day – the party the night before had been a good one, after all, as befitted New Years' Eve – to a photo message on her phone, that contained a shot of some curtains lit by morning sunshine, and the following text:

I want to wake up to this view every morning. And I think I will get to! (Well, not *this* view precisely, but I've been forbidden from sending the really important one. Will leave it to your imagination. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks). Am reduced to wearing plaid flannel shirts, as I ran out of clothing days ago. Or nothing at all, which also works. Happy New Years, nosy Elf woman, and Thank You! So much. From us both. Seriously. XXX. PS: V. says to tell you to come visit whenever you want to – but give us another week or so? Gotta make up for lost time & all that. Thx! O. PPS: XXXXXXXXXXX

+++++++++++++++++++

The End


End file.
